


poor flesh and fluttering hearts

by deathsweetqueen



Series: Stony Bingo 2018 [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Dry Humping, Friends to Lovers, Insecure Steve Rogers, Insecure Tony, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining, STONY Bingo 2018, Sexual Content, Shy Steve Rogers, Stony Bingo, Team Interventions, Wing Kink, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 11:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16576052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsweetqueen/pseuds/deathsweetqueen
Summary: Steve blushes so adorably when Tony walks into the kitchen, staring down at the plate of pancakes that he made for himself and the rest of the team.His brown wings, the colour of burnt umber, shake out before folding around his broad form.For a moment, Tony is confused and then, he looks down at himself, noticing the way he strode into the kitchen in just a pair of silk boxers, arc reactor and shiny red scars on vivid display.He shifts uneasily on his feet and immediately hates himself for the action.Why should he feel so awkward, so self-conscious just because perfect fucking Captain America finds him an absolute mess of a person?Or alternatively, where Steve and Tony go out of their ways to avoid each other and their wings don’t help matters.





	poor flesh and fluttering hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "wings" square on my Stony Bingo card. 
> 
> The title for this fic comes from a poem by aesterismos (http://aesterismos.tumblr.com/post/105763594954/we-are-young-summers-bright-sun-and-tiny-moon-i).

Steve blushes so adorably when Tony walks into the kitchen, staring down at the plate of pancakes that he made for himself and the rest of the team.

His brown wings, the colour of burnt umber, shake out before folding around his broad form.

For a moment, Tony is confused and then, he looks down at himself, noticing the way he strode into the kitchen in just a pair of silk boxers, arc reactor and shiny red scars on vivid display.

He shifts uneasily on his feet and immediately hates himself for the action.

Why should he feel so awkward, so self-conscious just because perfect fucking Captain America finds him an absolute mess of a person?

Something twinges across his spine, and he knows that the joints where his wings should burst out from are showing off pathetically.

Instead, the panelling of his metal wings clink, dipping down to hide behind his back, and it brings him back to himself.

Tony clears his throat. “Thanks for the pancakes, Cap,” he says, cheerfully, snatching himself up a plate before drowning it in thick rivulets of golden syrup.

Steve clears his throat and his eyes flicker to meet Tony’s, his face going hot before he returns his attention to his half-eaten, giant stack of pancakes (at least twice the height of Tony’s own plate).

“You’re welcome, Tony,” he says, quietly.

* * *

“What?” Tony demands later that day, when he saunters up from his workshop, only to find Natasha waiting for him at the top of the staircase.

Her copper-coloured wings loom up behind her, the feathers rippling as if uncertain as to whether he poses a friend or a threat to her.

He grins, smugly.

She eyes him, blankly, and crosses her arms over her chest. “We have a problem,” she says, simply.

Tony narrows her eyes.

He hasn’t quite forgotten the needle she stabbed into his neck.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, blithely, attempting to move past her.

Her arm shoots out just as he tries to dodge her, preventing his escape.

She fixes him with a dark look. “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she snaps. “You and Cap.”

_Oh, shit._

“What about me and Cap?” he asks, mock-confused.

His poker face is better than anyone’s.

Natasha narrows her eyes, before faltering just the slightest, which clears up almost immediately.

Tony considers that a win – he knows not many can stump the great Black Widow, and he considers it quite an honour to be on that very short list.

“I thought you two fixed things after the Helicarrier,” she pushes.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “We did. We did the whole saving the world thing together; I took orders like a good little soldier; I saved all our arses by launching a nuke into outer space, and before he went on his road trip of self-discovery, he apologised for calling me a useless waste of space in a tin can, and I apologised for implying that he was one of those monkeys in cages they test the lipstick on and somehow gets lucky enough to escape chemical toxicity. We’re good.”

Natasha scowls. “If you’re good, why do you two spend all your time _not_ looking at each other?” she demands.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

“I did,” Natasha replies, suddenly.

“And?” Morbid curiosity swells inside him. “What did he say?” he can’t help but ask.

 _Tony, you moron_ , he curses himself, when Natasha smiles like she has him.

“Why do you want to know?” she teases.

“You were the one who _said_ it!” he protests.

Natasha sighs. “Look, you know we can’t continue like this.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We’ve been going on like this fine, so clearly there are no problems. And when did we become _we_ , exactly?”

“It impacts upon team performance,” she says, sternly. “And that impacts upon all of us.”

“There’s nothing to impact!”

“Look, Tony,” Natasha sighs. “Whether you like it or not, the team does see you and Cap as leaders for this group, and when there’s stress and awkwardness between you two, it does impact upon team performance. And if the wrong person were to catch us unaware, if something went wrong in the field, well, you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Tony narrows his eyes, his wings flaring with a sharp clang of metal. “Don’t try to manipulate me into doing what you want, Romanoff. It won’t work. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, if you’re done accosting me in the home that I let you live in, rent-free, I might add, considering you stabbed me in the neck, I’ll be on my way. I have work to do.”

Natasha clearly doesn’t like anything he’s saying, going by the pinched look on her face, but she clearly cuts her losses, perhaps concerned by what he’d do if she backed him into a corner, and steps aside, allowing him to pass.

If Natasha, of all people, is stepping in, this is getting out of hand.

Tony might have to do something.

* * *

“Rogers!” Tony calls out, when he finds Steve on his lonesome in the common area, curled up on the couch, while balancing a hardbound book across his wide thighs (not that Tony was noticing his thighs, of course). “I think we need to have a conversation.”

Steve frowns, placing the book on the coffee table in front of him, while his wings do that strange flutter-ripple, flaring up as if he were presenting, before folding in tightly around Steve’s large form (which, in itself, is such a joke, because why would Captain America be presenting to _him_ , of all people?).

“Is something wrong, Tony?” he asks, worriedly.

Tony bites his lip, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “No. Nothing’s wrong, per se. I just think we need to have a conversation.”

“Okay,” Steve replies, steadily. “Is there anything in particular we need to have a conversation about?”

Tony swallows hard. He clears his throat, puffing up his chest to make himself sound and look more confident, both to himself and to Steve. “It’s come to my attention that there’s some tension between us, and apparently it’s harming team performance,” he says, determinedly.

Steve straightens, his face turning grave. “Did someone come to you with this?” he asks, solemnly.

Tony nods, stiffly. “Yeah. Apparently, they don’t think we made up fully after everything that happened on the Helicarrier, which I think is total bullshit, and I tried to tell them that you and I were fine, but they were really adamant that there’s something wrong in our relationship. _Professional_ relationship, that is,” he amends, hastily.

“I didn’t think there was something wrong in our professional relationship,” Steve says, carefully.

Tony snorts. “Neither did I, but apparently the masses have spoken.”

“Okay, fine, Tony. What did you think we need to talk about?”

Tony falters.

Honestly, he hadn’t really thought beyond roping Steve into a conversation.

Like the turncoats they are, his wings twitch nervously behind him.

“Is there tension between us?” he decides to begin with.

Steve shrugs. “I don’t think so. Do you think there is?”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Don’t answer my question with another question.”

“Tony, you were the one who came to me with this. It seems to me like if anyone has a problem, it’s you.”

“Well, to be fair, it was Romanoff who came to me with this. So, I think it’s her who’s got the problem.”

 _Fucking Romanoff_.

She’s always a thorn in his side.

Steve grins bright and fast. “In any case, I’m happy to have this conversation if you have something we need to talk about.”

“You don’t look me in the eye anymore,” Tony says, suddenly, and immediately regrets it.

Steve visibly fumbles. “I… uh, I don’t know,” he clears his throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Tony raises his eyebrows, and in response, his wings bristle with a sharp noise.

“Oh, please, Rogers, at least do me the courtesy of _not_ treating me like an idiot,” he scoffs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve insists.

“Are you sure?” Tony demands. “Just a couple of days ago, I walked into the kitchen and you either looked like you were going to drop your entire plate of pancakes on yourself or blush until you spontaneously combusted.”

Right on cue, Steve begins to blush, and his wings unravel, spanning the entire width of the couch he’s sitting on.

Tony reminds himself again that there’s no fucking way that Steve Rogers is presenting to him.

“Yes! Just like that!” Tony shakes his head, throwing his hands up in the air. “What the hell is going on with you, Steve?”

“Nothing,” Steve says, quickly. “It’s just…”

“Just what? Did I do something, say something? Did you hear something about me? I thought we were fine after everything that happened on the Helicarrier, but maybe me flying a fucking nuke through a wormhole into outer space and saving New York, and potentially the world, wasn’t enough to convince you of my heroism,” Tony finishes, bitterly.

Steve’s eyes turn as wide as headlights, glistening with hurt.

“Tony, I-”

“What, Steve? What?”

“You don’t understand-”

“I don’t understand what?” Tony demands.

“Would you just let me talk?” Steve snaps.

“Why? So, you can go on about how you’re perennially disappointed with me?”

“I am _not_ perennially disappointed with you. Stop putting words in my mouth!”

“Then, what’s the fucking problem?”

“You wouldn’t-you wouldn’t understand,” Steve stumbles.

Tony crosses his arms over his chest, the metal panels of his wings flaring up in offence. “Why don’t you try me?” he asks, coldly.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Yeah,” Tony snorts. “I got that.”

“Tony,” Steve sighs, stumbling to his feet and approaching Tony like he’s a frightened kitten. “It’s not like that at all. I’m not offended by you. I’m not angry at you. You haven’t _done_ anything, I swear.”

“So, what the fuck is going on here?” Tony demands. “Why are Russian assassins literally detaining me in my home because they think something weird is going on between us?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake-”

Suddenly, Steve’s mouth is coming down on his. Tony blinks and he’s being pressed up against the wall with a humongous super soldier surging against him. Tony doesn’t give it a second thought. He throws his hands around Steve’s neck and lets him hike Tony up the length of his body until he’s wrapping his legs around Steve’s waist. Steve’s mouth leaves his with a groan, before he drags his teeth down the tendon in Tony’s neck, biting down until Tony keens.

“Steve,” Tony moans, clutching at his shoulders, just over the joints from which Steve’s wings burst, covering them in a canopy of raw umber.

Steve mumbles something into his skin, jutting his hips against Tony’s, and _holy shit_ , Tony can feel the outline of Steve’s cock pressing up against his stomach.

Well, Steve certainly isn’t slouching in that area.

Steve’s hand slides under Tony’s shirt, palming the small of his back and sloping upwards until he reaches the raised skin of the scar tissue on Tony’s back, which is tantamount to pouring a giant bucket of ice water all over him.

Abruptly, he pushes Steve away, panting.

Steve is a sight, even now.

He’s a little shaky on his feet, his thick, blonde hair in a miserably disarray, his lips pink like peach blossoms, while his hands clench and unclench in mid-air, like he’s dying to get his hands back on Tony.

Tony doubts he too looks anything less wrecked.

“Tony, I-” Steve begins.

“I can’t do this,” he blurts out, his pulse a heavy thud in his ears.

Tony’s ashamed to say that he runs away.

* * *

Then begins the era of avoidance.

It’s even worse than it was before, when the Avengers had first moved into the tower, and Tony had broken up with Pepper, and the things that had been said between Tony and Steve still lingered in the air between them.

Natasha glares at him like she could stab him in the neck all over again, this time for her own peace of mind instead of being in his interest, but he ignores it with all of the nonchalance he can manage.

It’s her fault, after all.

If she had just kept her giant mouth shut and her equally giant nose out of other people’s business, none of this would be happening.

That being said, it’s not like she literally forced him to dry hump Captain America against a wall, so there’s only an extent to which he can actually blame her without feeling completely and utterly ridiculous.

Bruce is twitchier than ever, especially when they’re all in the kitchen eating breakfast (whoever thought team breakfasts were a good idea should be shot, as far as Tony’s concerned), and he can feel the thick, cloying air around them, and the special way that Tony and Steve move around each other without actually _looking_ at each other. Later, in the lab they share, Bruce will tentatively broach the subject with him, ask him if everything’s okay between him and Steve and well, Tony’s always been a good liar.

He’s had to be.

And he justifies it to himself because there’s no point in stressing Bruce out if it can be helped, and the hint of green creeping up his neck is enough for Tony to lie to the Pope, if it’ll calm the mild-mannered scientist down.

Thor feels the need to play extra-terrestrial therapist, and Tony can’t get mad, because it’s Thor and the man’s like an overgrown, golden puppy dog that won’t stop smiling. Thor sits with him one day and regales him with stories of Nordic rituals to _strengthen and heal the bonds of comradery between warriors_ , whatever the fuck that means. And he’s so honest and forthcoming about it that Tony ends up sitting there, listening to an hour-long lecture about some ceremony that involves honey, a forest and a reel of silk cloth that Tony doesn’t want to ponder on for too long.

Clint mainly ignores it. Or, at least that’s what Tony thinks he’s doing, because he hasn’t really intervened at all. He isn’t at all bothered by whatever’s going on between Tony and Steve, either because he doesn’t really care or he hasn’t noticed, and frankly, that’s perfectly fine with him. Honestly, Tony appreciates it. Clint is as much of a jerk he was prior to the whole thing with Steve, and he hasn’t change at all. He still pops his head out of the vents in Tony’s workshop to hear Tony scream his lungs out and still drinks all of Tony’s coffee just before he manages to stumble into the kitchen in the morning.

It’s comforting, his douchebag-ness.

Tony would have been content with this awkward tension hanging in the air between him and Cap, would’ve lived with it forever, if that what it meant, if it meant him not having to talk about what happened between them in the common area.

Of course, life sucks and karma’s a bitch, so it all comes to a head one day when Amora manages to upend the entire tower’s security with one of her infamous magical tantrums, and frankly, Tony’s seething when he stalks through the tower, in civilian clothes, his wings flaring, because he doesn’t like it when people mess with his stuff, and the bitch touched JARVIS. Seriously, the nerve.

He can’t find the rest of the Avengers anywhere and the alarms are blaring, washing the entire tower in a sheen of nauseating red that makes his stomach curdle.

He finds the villain in question lounging on his sofa in _his_ common room, taking a bite into a crispy, sweet red apple.

“Ah, the Man of Iron,” she says, pleasantly, when she spots him, tossing her long blonde hair. “I appear to have caught you in a state of indolence.”

She looks him up and down like he’s a piece of meat, and Tony feels the abrupt need to put another couple of layers of clothes on.

“Yeah, you can say that,” Tony mutters. “Thor’s not here right now, Amora. If you want to try one of your Fatal Attraction routines, you might want to come back later.”

“I apologise, have I caught you at a wrong time?” she says, slyly.

Clearly, Tony should not be pissing off the Glenn Close remake, but, in his defence, he’s pissed off.

“Well, I’d rather not be looking at your face like _ever_ , but we don’t always get what we want.”

Amora’s beautiful face contorts into something disgusting.

“You little cockroach,” she hisses, sliding to her feet, storming towards him, with her hand curled into a fist.

Tony’s self-preservation skills kick in and he becomes very much aware of the fact that he isn’t wearing his armour, and he’s very much a squishy, breakable meat sack without it. So, he takes a step back.

Amora extends her hand towards her, flexing her fingers, and his arms and legs snap together like a board. His wings fold in tightly against his back, and the raw patches of skin on his back of what is left of his flesh wings start to burn. He rises in the air, despite his struggles, and panic claws in his chest, hot and heavy.

Amora smiles.

“Amora!”

Relief loosens the weight in his chest, because he can see out of the corner of his eye, that the Avengers are standing in the doorway to the common room, Thor leading the herd, but with Steve at his shoulder, his shield raised, ramrod straight and glaring at Amora with enough heat that if the universe were just, she’d be burning up right then and there. Natasha and Clint both have their weapons raised, Natasha’s finger itching to pull the trigger on her gun and Clint’s bow taut. Bruce brings up the rear, an alarming shade of green already crawling across his skin.

Warmth curls in Tony’s chest.

_Huh, so this is what team playing feels like._

“Let him go, Amora,” Thor warns, taking a step forward and brandishing Mjölnir at her.

Amora smiles, wickedly.

“Very well,” she says, loftily. “Catch.”

Clearly, this bitch learnt all her tricks from Loki, because she flicks her wrist and sends him flying through the glass window, which shatters upon impact, and Tony plummets right to the ground, fast approaching.

He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, honestly, but his wings split out with a grating sound, halting his descent until he’s suspended in mid-air, before bursting him up into the air, towards the jagged hole in his once-immaculate tower. When he makes it to the rent in the glass, Thor and Amora are fighting, while Steve, Natasha, Clint and Bruce are frantically trying to figure out a way to save him.

To be honest, by the time it would’ve taken them to find a solution, he’d have been a puddle of flesh, bone and blood on the asphalt.

That’s why he prefers to save himself.

It’s actually quite amusing the way they stare at him as he climbs through the window, his wings fanned out.

“And why are we all so glum?” he teases.

The rest of the Avengers all exchange miserable, concerned looks between themselves.

“Tony-” Steve begins, roughly.

Tony holds a hand up in the air to stop him mid-sentence. “Give me a sec, Cap.”

He storms over to where Amora is still staring at him, confused.

_Oh, honey, the buses don’t go where you live, do they?_

He’d almost pity her if she hadn’t just thrown him out of ninety-three-storey window.

_The bitch._

He stares at her for a moment, before his wings take action and clout her with a jarring sound, sending her flying into the wall.

He turns to Thor.

“Go nuts,” he says, cheerfully, and walks away, past the bemused Avengers.

* * *

An hour later, Steve finds Tony in his workshop, repairing the damage that Amora’s magic had done to JARVIS’ coding.

“What happened to the magical nutcase?” Tony asks, his eyes never leaving the computer in front of him.

“Thor’s got her; he’s taking her back to Asgard, so she can face his father’s justice.”

“Great, another revenge fantasy done and dusted. Why are _you_ down here?”

“Can’t I have come to check on you?” Steve asks, carefully.

Tony turns around to stare at him, just a little sceptically. “Did you draw the short straw or somethin’?”

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “I think… I think we need to talk,” he says, haltingly.

Tony groans and turns back to the monitor. “Cap, I just got thrown out of a ninety-three-storey window. My AI’s a mess because of that psychopath. Can we please table this discussion for another time?”

“No,” Steve says, shortly. “I don’t think we can.”

Tony slumps forward. “Great,” he says, wearily. “Go right ahead.”

“Your wings…” Steve begins. “I didn’t realise they worked like-”

“-like regular wings?” Tony smiles, bitterly. “What, did you think they were just for vanity?”

“No, _no_.” Steve shakes his head, furiously. “That’s not what I meant at all. I just-I knew that your wings, well, they’re gone-I mean, you don’t have them anymore. I don’t know how-”

Steve’s wings flutter nervously.

“I’m going to save you the trouble of continuing your word vomit. I lost my wings in Afghanistan, when I was kidnapped. The Ten Rings cut them off,” Tony says, flatly, and sure enough, Steve looks utterly appalled at the idea.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, quietly.

“Don’t be. It’s not _your_ fault.” Tony shakes his head. “I built these when I came back.” His wings ripple in response with a clean, shrill sound. “They work just as well as my real wings, hell, your real wings too. I’m not deficient in any way,” he spits.

“Of course not!” Steve exclaims. “Tony, I’d never dream of suggesting… you know I don’t think you’re deficient, right?”

Tony shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think,” he says, blithely.

Oh, but it really does.

“Tony,” Steve begins, gently. “I didn’t know you could fly like normal with your metal wings. I shouldn’t have assumed, but I’ve never thought you were in any way less than me. I’m really sorry if I ever made you think I was looking down on you,” he says, fiercely.

Tony swallows hard, seeing nothing but truth there, and looks away before it becomes too much for him to bear, too much raw honesty for Steve to see mirrored on his face.

“If that’s all…” Tony trails off.

“No, no, it’s not. Tony…” Steve sighs. “I want to apologise what for happened in the common area. It was disrespectful and inappropriate, and you weren’t really participating, not really, and I shouldn’t have forced-”

“Wait a second, you didn’t force me into _anything_ ,” Tony insists.

“But you didn’t like it,” Steve retorts.

“Who the fuck said I didn’t like it?” Tony demands.

“Tony,” Steve says, deliberately. “I touched your back, you pushed me away and got out of there like a bat out of hell. Call me simple, but that makes me think that I did something wrong, and you weren’t really into it. And I’m sorry.”

“Steve, I…” Tony hesitates.

Steve looks at him so hopefully, and his wings flutter.

But the longer that Tony’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, the more Steve’s face falls. He nods, as if resigned, and takes a step back like he’s about to flee.

For one long, terrible second, Tony imagines a future where he lets Steve walk out that door.

It would only be a miserable existence.

Panic claws at his throat but he lunges forward at a speed he didn’t think he was capable of, and grabs Steve’s giant, warm hand before he can leave.

“You’re wrong,” he blurts out. “I was… I _was_ into it.”

Steve frowns. “But you ran away.”

“You touched my back,” Tony says, like it explains everything.

Steve cocks his head. “I don’t follow.”

“I have… scars,” he admits, shamefaced, avoiding Steve’s gaze (just what he needs in life, confessing to the most perfect specimen of humanity that he’s broken, on the inside and the outside). “From what the Ten Rings did to my wings. There are… well, there are scars.”

Steve’s eyes slowly dawn with realisation. “Is that why… you made a run for it when I touched your back?”

Tony nods, stiffly.

“I just thought… well, I thought you’d gone off me. Or if you were gone on me, in the first place. I guess… I was just really confused. I was always presenting, and you weren’t responding the way I read you would, so I thought you weren’t interested. But then, in the common area, I, well, I kissed you and you seemed to like it, but then you didn’t like it-”

“Wait, you were _presenting_?” Tony asks, incredulously, stopping Steve’s stammering halfway through.

Steve pauses. “Wait, you didn’t know I was presenting?” he replies, just as incredulously as Tony.

“I just thought you had shit control over your wings!” Tony exclaims. “But if you were actually presenting… _oh_ ,” he says, lamely. “That, uh, that might make more sense.”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Steve says, quickly. “I can stop if you want. I shouldn’t have done something like that without first clearing the air between us. It was… inappropriate and improper…”

“I can’t present,” Tony admits, still a little dazed by the idea that Steve had been presented, to _him_. “I, uh, these wings functionally work like my old ones, but they don’t really translate the biological imperatives and behaviours very well. They, well, they can respond to emotions, sure, but the whole mating-lust-romantic-interest thing goes right over their heads… metaphorically speaking.” He shakes his head. “But you weren’t…” Tony trails off. “You weren’t interested in me, not like that. _Were you_?” he asks, confused.

Steve stares at Tony like he’s such a mess. “Oh, Tony, of course, I was interested in you like that. I still am,” he says, gently, like Tony’s some skittish colt that might run away at the first sign of _feelings, ew._

“Oh, okay.” Tony swallows hard.

“But you didn’t respond to me presenting, I just thought… I just thought I did something wrong, or you weren’t appreciating my advances, or you thought I was being inappropriate. I didn’t realise about your wings. Of course, if I was harassing you-”

“You weren’t harassing me,” Tony cuts him off. “I just… I didn’t realise you were presenting, which, in hindsight, is very dumb of me.”

Steve laughs. “I could’ve probably been doing things wrong? I don’t have a lot of experience in this area,” he says, shyly.

“Maybe we’re both just really bad at this,” Tony offers. “That seems like the most logical answer.”

Steve makes a face. “Yeah, I think so.”

“So, uh,” Tony fiddles with the screwdriver on his desk. “Why are you standing all the way over there?”

“Oh, right!” Steve’s eyes widen, comically. “Well, did you want me to…” he trails off, unsure.

Tony stares at him for a moment before sighing. He jumps up on the desk, clearing out a space for himself, and crooks his finger, beckoning Steve to approach, who practically lunges forward, crowding up against him.

Steve throws his arms around him, kissing him hard, and Tony parts his mouth under Steve’s eagerly, pulling the super soldier in close, between his legs. It doesn’t take much time to divest each other of their clothes (Tony’s an old pro in that area, after all), and once they’re naked and pressing up against each other, Steve pulls away from him, despite the hurt little noise of want that Tony makes.

“Are you sure about this?” Steve asks, roughly.

“I’m sure,” Tony insists through sweet muzzy lust. “Come on, Steve. _Come on_.”

With a groan, Steve grabs at him, groping at Tony’s arse with one hand, while the other strokes lazily at Tony’s bare abdomen, his thighs, before sliding up his back. He hesitates when he proceeds up the notches in Tony’s spine.

“Can I…?”

Tony takes a deep breath, shoving down the instinctual flare of fear. “There’s a latch at the base of the joints. If you press down, it’ll take them off.”

“Tony,” Steve begins, worriedly.

“It’s okay, Steve, I want this. I want you to see me.”

Steve stares down at Tony, incisively, before his hands slide up Tony’s spine to where his metal wings weld to his skin. He presses down where Tony had mentioned, and the wings fall free, collapsing with a great big metal _thunk_ , letting Tony breathe a sigh of relief as the weight relaxes from his back.

Steve’s warm palms hesitate on Tony’s back for a moment before they flatten against the red, raised scars on his back, where the joints of his old wings still throb with phantom pain.

“Am I hurting you?” Steve asks, worriedly.

Tony takes a deep breath.

No one has put their hands on that part of him since before Afghanistan; he would never have let them.

He looks up at Steve.

He smiles.

“No. No, you’re not.”


End file.
